


Silver Storms

by sfiddy



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Anya-Centric, Cold Weather, F/M, Glenya, Huddling For Warmth, Lots of Anya psychology, Sex, anya is pragmatic, heavy on tropes, light on their drama and trauma, soft, taking what I needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-01-12 18:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18452474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfiddy/pseuds/sfiddy
Summary: Summer is easy to survive, but winter is not so kind.  Comfort is valuable when ghosts howl in the wind.





	1. Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Hold. My. Beer.
> 
> I want to mention Pure Anon, for asking for face touching and I sort of went overboard. And Kat. And Wolves. And everyone over on the discord. :)
> 
> There is now a PG13 version of this fic in my Tumblr and posted here in my works.

Leningrad in summertime was an easy place to survive. It was easy for Anya to sweep all day and relax in the afternoon, eating a ladle of cheap street stew bought with her slim wages and still each week lay a little by for travel. She had a tin cup for her stew, a bed roll to sleep, and enough clothes that she was never too ripe. She had enough for a slice of soap every week, and the Neva was a fair enough washtub. The breezes that rolled from her banks were refreshing on warm nights. 

And it was a fine life in summertime. 

There was even entertainment in the mornings. Speeches in the square. Marches, sometimes, too. Decorative uniforms and sleek words. Good words. They were plain and good and Anya understood work and it’s value. When she finished sweeping a street, it was cleaner. That was good, and she was paid and that was better. So she got her assignment every day and swept the street, usually in the area around the Prospekt and the square, and listened to the speeches as she did her work.

And if the man giving the speeches sometimes lingered when he looked at her, well, that was nothing to be concerned about. As long as he only looked, though worse fates had been suffered and occasionally enjoyed in the course of her treks, though not since arriving in Leningrad. Anya knew how delicate her situation was. It was enough that she had bad dreams. She did not need visitors in her patch under the bridge, too.

And thus, everything was such. A fine life. In summertime.

…

The weather hinted at change one day, and Anya needed her coat until mid morning. With winter coming, she would be able to save less-- it took more food to survive and she'd need shelter some nights, though how to find it was yet to be worked out. The cold, too, brought its demons, waking her in the night with faded strains of a song full of sorrow. Images floated in the darkness, crowding her from peace with rhymes of wings and silver storms and other words not common to her speech. Ideas not safe for a simple Russian. Her nights were haunted by ghosts. 

Her arms were slow to loosen that morning and, even working, it was chilly until the sun was quite bright. Even the commissar giving the morning speech had kept his great coat on. Anya was amused that there were medals on both the coat and the uniform underneath. Only the Cheka were permitted such duplication of goods, it seemed.

Even as he spoke-- of a brave future, of shared work and shared rewards-- his eyes followed her. But for the first time, it seemed, it was with concern. Anya looked away quickly, but had seen the way his sturdy brow knit together. Winter came fast in Russia, and without warning. The same could be said for much else, if the occasional raids that resulted in new faces on the street and in the shops she swept the doorways of were any indication. 

Warmth returned again, fading the song, the ghosts, and dreams of places far from Leningrad. Anya rose refreshed and gathered Russia's dirt into piles, following her broom on her slow march across the Prospekt. 

…

A pile of grit had knocked loose from a damaged concrete barrier and Anya spent her day chasing the debris. In the afternoon, nearing the time when Anya would return to the work station for pay, she stopped to survey her work. 

“A good day’s work, comrade.”

She spun around, ready to hold off whoever had come so close without her knowledge but… it was the speech maker, his uniform glinting with medals.

“Ah, thank you. Just doing my part.”

He smiled, and nodded at the smooth pavement and the tidy seams along walkways. “And an excellent contribution. Russia is in your debt.” He gave a little bow, and offered her something in his hand. When she shied away, he unwrapped the package a bit. “Russia may not be able to offer many comforts at present, but just one will do no harm, eh?”

Crinkled white paper parted in his hand and inside was a small clutch of dried fruits and nuts. Sweets. Hardly decadent, but her mouth watered at the idea of a dried apricot, leathery and chewy and melting with sugar.

But who knew what this was? Perhaps it was a trick. Some test of loyalty or her adherence to austerity. “I shouldn’t.”

He gave the bag a little shake, jostling the treats around. “Well, if you just look, I’m sure you’ll find something you like. Oh look! I’ve got one more date!” He held it out proudly.

“No. I’m just doing my job.”

He looked a little defeated. “Oh. It’s the uniform, isn’t it?”

Anya looked down. “I can’t lose this job. They’re very hard to come by.”

“I understand. What is your name?”

She looked up sharply. “Why? Am I in trouble?”

“No!” he said quickly. “I just… I see you every day and I wanted to say hello properly.”

“By giving me candy?”

Curiously, he muttered to himself before clearing his throat and looking up again. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to do something nice. Just… just cup your hand behind you, like this.” He tucked his arm to his side and made a well with his hand. “I’ll walk by and your work leader won’t see, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“It’s not.” But she cupped her hand by her side anyway because you don’t turn down food and you certainly don’t say no to someone with two sets of medals. He passed by and her hand filled with various nuts and fruits. 

He turned and showed that the bag was empty, glee painted in his smile. “I’m here every day!” 

She already knew that, but she stuffed the nuts and fruits in her pocket and saved most of her wages that day. 

…

The next morning she woke to the chilly breath of the Neva and finished the last of the fruit as her dream song faded. Then Anya spent her day thinking about the officer. He was sweet and charming. A fine example of a man, but not for her. Surely a man like that belonged to someone. 

It was almost an accident. Anya was simply sweeping but found that her path crossed his before his speech, and he tipped his head towards her as he made his way to his podium. She saw the direction he came from and noted it. If she lingered over her broom later, she was marked for her efforts, and it gave her a view to the street he walked and the row of doors he approached before she had to mind her work once more.

It took nearly a week to find out which flat was his. And it was his. _Only_ his. Two entire rooms and a bathroom. Running water and a kitchen and a little balcony with a few potted plants. Anya scurried back to her detail and worked fast to make up the time, but kept his shy smile at the back of her mind.

…

There were soggy, shredded pamphlets in the square today. Rain and wind during the night had turned stacks of them to mulch, spreading decomposing slop across her usual work areas. 

“I’m sorry, comrade.”

She knew his voice well by now. He was here every day. “What for?”

“I had the pamphlets set out last night. I’d hoped to start early, but instead I added to your burdens.” When she turned, he was in his coat and had his hands clasped in front of him. He looked like a confessing child. “I’m sorry. I did not think of the weather.”

She shrugged. “It’s work.” He nodded at that, but lingered, watching her sweep the gobs of wet paper into neat piles for later collection. It was odd, his inspection of her broom’s harvest. While Russians were discouraged from idle chit chat, Anya realized she had not thanked him for the sweets the other day.

“I’m Anya.”

He held out his hand. “Gleb. Gleb Vaganov.” When her eyes travelled to the stacked rows of medals and the thick epaulets, he tipped his head to the side with a faint grimace. “Ah, Deputy Commissioner Gleb Vaganov.”

Anya took his hand, but only then. “Just Anya.”

The shy smile returned and Anya wondered what made him bashful. Was he shy or did he lack experience? Another idea to examine later in her bed roll.

“Anya. That’s a good name.” Gleb released her hand. “A strong name.”

“It’s the only one I’ve known.”

Gleb nodded. Russia was a place where you did not ask too many questions. There were ghosts everywhere. 

“May I buy you a cup of tea, Anya? For the mess?”

Her mouth nearly watered. She’d not had good tea in weeks, usually contenting herself with herbs and pine boiled in her tin cup. But the broom… her job.

He caught her hesitation. “I will send a message to your work leader.”

It was just a cup of tea, and they were both here every day. And if Gleb slipped an extra biscuit onto her saucer, who was she to refuse?

…

Another day, another street full of chipped wood, sand, and… ice? Anya had dreaded it, but the first morning came when the edges of the gutters were wet with ice shards melting in the morning sun. Over the next week, the ice took longer to melt as the concrete cooled more every night, and Anya wrapped her scarf around her head and neck against the cold.

She looked up from her work as Gleb approached. 

“Brisk morning, comrade!” He rubbed his hands together and clapped them. “I have risen early every morning this week and I have yet to see the first snow of the season. Tell me, my friend, have you seen snow yet?”

She laughed. “What a good Russian you are, Gleb. And no, I have not seen snow, only ice.”

He sighed dramatically. “A pity. I suppose we will have to find solace in this.” He held out his hand. Anya had grown accustomed to his offerings. Nuts one day, an egg another. She swept her way to him and looked at the waxy paper his hand.

She could not name the memory. She had no reference for it, but she recognized the glossy brown lump peeking from the waxed paper. 

“Is that… chocolate?”

Gleb closed his hand. “Shh! It took me two weeks to get it! Here.” Artlessly, he took her hand and tucked the package into it. He backed away, cheeks blazing, and glanced down at his shoes. “Enjoy it later and tell me all about it!” 

“Wait, don’t you want--” 

But he was already walking to his office.

Anya curled one corner of the paper to see, then she dented the shiny crust with her fingernail. Definitely chocolate, though she wasn’t sure when the last time she’d had a taste.

He was nearly to his office on the Prospekt, and Anya watched as the door was opened for him. 

She whispered to no one. “Don’t you want some?” 

That night, Anya broke off a piece of the cold chocolate and slipped it into her mouth. It warmed and loosened. It slid across her tongue, melted smoothly, and coated her mouth in a polished, bittersweet glow. It made her mouth water but she didn’t want to swallow too often. Anything to make this last.

It didn’t, but that was alright. The taste slicked her mouth and was the most luxurious thing she could remember. It was tempting, the other half, but she wrapped it tightly in the waxed paper to tuck away in a spare pocket and then tucked herself in her cold bedroll. She would save the rest for a colder night. Maybe.

…

A colder day came soon enough. The ice lasted through the morning and the sun did not come out to melt it. The sky was gray and lightened only enough to make the darkening more ominous. Anya felt the chill of heavy wet air, and it was late afternoon when the first pellets began to fall. They bounced off her shoulders, then grew sticky. Before Anya could make her way back to the meager shelter of the bridge, the cold rain had passed into ice, then rain, and back again.

In the late afternoon, back at her patch, Anya shivered violently and tried to light a few coals but her matches were wet and so was the kindling. She was shaking. There had been nothing to eat even with her few ready coins, and as much as she would have enjoyed the chocolate, it wouldn’t help her tonight. 

With no way to get warm and no food, Anya searched her slowing mind for options and found only one. Using her broom to keep upright in the freezing rain, she picked her way past landmarks she knew well enough to know on which side the street filth accumulated, beneath the very few lamps burning dim with fish oil, and past the Nevsky Prospekt. She stumbled past the shops she swept, and finally slogged shakily to the row of doors.

The cold was so deep in her she could scarcely stand to knock on the door. It was a kittenish knock. If he did not hear then the doorway was good enough. A little warmth seeped from the chinks around the frame.

Exhaustion dimmed her sight, and she banged her thin fist against the door once more.

“Yes! Yes! I’m coming!” The door opened a crack as shoes shuffled about on the other side. “A terrible night, comrade. Do you have a message--- Oh!”

It was warm inside. Gleb was in shirtsleeves. 

“Anya! You’re freezing!”

She managed a weak smile. Blue-lipped, most likely. “A terrible night indeed, comrade.”

The swift motion made Anya’s head spin and she was suddenly inside, clutching at a wall as Gleb closed and locked his door. There was warmth but she could not feel it, not through all the wet and the crusts of ice.

“Get out of that! Here, in here.” Her coat was stripped away and Gleb led her to a washroom. “I’ll get you some blankets and hot water. Anya! Listen!”

She’d been cold before. Worse, maybe, and managed to live without help but she would not refuse it now. Not when she could sense heat on her face and smell the steam of a boiling kettle.

“Yes, Gleb.” Once she started loosening her clothes, Gleb let her be. Her wool skirt was sodden and slapped to the floor in a heavy heap. Next her undercoat and scarf, and she could hear pots moving around and water being pumped into them. A glance in the mirror showed that she was a fright, hair plastered down and her lips white. Her blue eyes were too bright in her pale face with no warmth for balance.

“Towels are there in the cabinet. Here,” he set a steaming tea kettle by the door and took her clothes. “You can use this.”

Anya used the basin to wash and wrapped her hair in a towel. It wasn’t much, but she was warmer and certainly cleaner than she’d been in days. It was dangerous to wash when the weather was turning.

She accepted a robe and a quilt he slipped through the door. The robe was warm and whole, and the blanket was soft with age and had places where the mismatched fabrics were cut by the threads that held it together. Surely an officer would have better finery?

In her bare feet and clutching his robe around her, Anya opened the washroom door and caught Gleb arranging food on a plate, her clothes carefully hanging near the stove to dry.

“I’m sorry, I interrupted your supper.” 

“No! No, I already ate. I had some extra. Come and eat.” Anya did, eating her fill until her stomach warned her to stop. Gleb fussed over her, tucking the quilt over her legs, then went to the cooker, heating potfulls of water and his kettle again. “I’ll, uh, make tea.”

He left for the washroom and returned a moment later, his hair suspiciously smooth and combed. “How did you get caught in this storm, Anya?”

She shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“It’s not a joke,” Gleb turned stern. Perhaps a touch fearful. “The first storms can be the most dangerous. People aren’t ready and don’t realize how long they can last.”

Stern did not suit him; not without the medals, at least. Anya thought back to one morning in the square. “I thought you did not think of the weather.”

Whatever severity had been there, relief swept away. “You frightened me.” A small smile. The one he offered when he had a treat. “You must be feeling better if you can tease me.” He set a cup of tea in front of her and Anya immediately cupped her hands around it.

“I think I should tease you no matter how I felt.”

Gleb looked away quickly and took his tea with him to stand by a window. He looked out and shook his head. “I can’t let you go back out tonight, even when your things are dry. I’ll only need a blanket or two and I can sleep by the stove.”

“I can’t take your bed, Gleb.”

“You need it. You need to keep warm tonight.”

After Gleb washed the few dishes and put things away, he went to fetch blankets from the chest in his bedroom and wash up for bed. Anya sat by the warm stove and stretched her toes, no longer wax-white from the cold. Her face was warm too, so she would not look so haunted. The ghost who walked across Russia only to risk freezing by the Neva. 

Anya ran her fingers through her hair, smoothing it into something acceptable. If Gleb had made an effort, so could she. He gave her a shy smile and laid out a small rug, then stacked a few blankets on a chair next to Anya. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be out of the way in a few minutes.” He took a pot of hot water into the washroom and moments later Anya heard water splashing.

Experience had taught her that a meal before sleep kept bad dreams away. It also taught her that few things were as generous as a shared hearth and food. While Anya was hardly a woman of loose morals, she was not immune to generosity. Morality had little to do with it anyway; when your goal was survival, the means hardly mattered, and comfort was as valuable as food.

Still chilled, but warmer than she’d felt in days, Anya waited until there was a pause in the splashing. Gleb deserved her consideration, so it was only when she heard tapping on the sink and the sounds of his things being reordered that she set the quilt aside and approached.

The door was well oiled and did not squeak when she opened it. 

“Anya!” Gleb was toweling his face when he saw her and startled. The edges of his cuffs were wet. “Did you need something?” 

In the mirror, she caught sight of herself. Pale lips, but warm cheeks. Eyes bright with purpose. “No, I am very well. Don’t let me interrupt.”

He was lean in the way soldiers were. Strong and economical. Able to miss a meal or two without weakness, but had obviously known hunger. Everyone had. There were ghosts everywhere and that was why a little comfort went further than coin these days.

She stepped closer to him. Close enough to see where the shirt clung to him. “Your shirt is wet, Gleb.” 

His breathing was louder. It bounced off the tiled walls. “I put it back on. I didn’t want to offend you.”

The fabric was translucent where it was wet and Anya lightly plucked at it. “It's cold. You shouldn't wear wet things to bed.” He was warm and the shirt would be dry soon, but that was not the point. 

Gleb had gone very still but for his rapid breaths and his dark, searching eyes. Eyes that watched her so often from across a square watched her now in the glass, peeping at his edges, her head by his shoulder. 

Her hands on his sides. “Let me help you, Gleb.” Slowly she reached around him in a loose hug from behind. Watching in the mirror, as his eyes glazed for just a moment, her fingers reached the top button and went to slip it free. 

“Anya,” he said, and stopped her hands. “You don't owe me anything. I won't take from you.”

He was kinder than anyone could be allowed to know. Anyone but her. Others got his scowls and speeches but she got his smiles and chocolates.

“You aren't taking, Gleb. I'm giving.”

His hold on her hands remained, but was not so strong. “I didn’t expect--”

“Shhh, Gleb,” she whispered by his ear. They were alone, and though the walls were thick a whisper says more than a shout and travels over the skin, into the bones. Like a benevolent twin to the violent cold howling outside. 

Both could rattle the nerves. 

His hands fell away and the first button opened. The second, and the third. His undershirt was clean and whole. As the lower buttons gave way and she parted the shirt, Anya could feel jumps and kicks under her skimming fingertips. He was watching her in the mirror as her arms and hands wound around him. In the reflection, she pulled his shirt loose, then slipped his braces down to hang from his trousers. 

She could imagine what he was feeling. His palms were probably itching to touch her, heart pounding and heat rising up his neck. Maybe there were little clenches in his middle, weakening his knees, but he kept still. She took a moment to hang his shirt and felt his eyes on her the whole time. 

Maybe it was a testament to how much he liked her, or perhaps it was inexperience. Whichever it was, he did not strip while she turned her back, but waited for her. Was he savoring this, or was he still uncertain? 

Anya wrapped her arms around him again and pressed her cheek to the dent between his shoulders, flattening her hands across him to feel how he flexed at her touch. Human touch was warm and yielding; so unlike the hard concrete piers and cold bedroll of her patch. 

Gleb had gone still, breaths shallow and shuddering until she rubbed her cheek against his back, pushing her forehead into the pad of lean muscle between his shoulders. A deep shaky breath, then a soft exhale. A torment that eased, one that grew with need.

He covered her hands with his, one on his chest and the other just above his belt, fingers sliding over hers then between them, exploring the sensitive places between her knuckles. He did not direct her, just pressed her hands into himself, like leaving an impression.

A tempting thought, so Anya slipped a hand just under his belt. His inhale was so quick that it lifted her head from his back. A tug and the undershirt was free of his trousers, and the belt met the floor with a cold clang. Anya pushed it aside and then looked up to meet Gleb’s gaze in the mirror.

He was rumpled and dark eyed. Hungry. “Please, Anya.” 

She opened her arms.

Once, while traveling, Anya had fallen into a river and clutched a floating branch until she reached the shore. The cold had clenched her lungs and she nearly didn’t make it. The ghosts came that night, singing sadly. 

Perhaps Gleb was drowning and that was why he held her the way he did. A kiss at her forehead, then her temple, then he lifted her hand to his cheek and pressed it to his lips. Anya shivered.

“You are still too cold, little sunshine,” he said as he rubbed her hands between his. “Here,” he went and got the quilt and laid it over the bed. A faint strip of light came from the kitchen and cut a line over the bed. Light was good. It was nice to not be lost in the dark. It was better to not be alone.

Gleb had a way of holding her that made her ache. He cupped and cradled, stroked and slid. Fabric heaped here and there alongside the bed and she buried her face in the divot at the bottom of his neck, licking at the notch in his collarbones, then over his chest, toying at the buds. When he could take no more, he flipped her onto her back and returned the favor until Anya dug her fingernails into his back, then tugged her to the edge of the bed, leaving her legs over the edge.

A kiss on her lips, slow and sucking, drawing her bottom lip between his. Then wet warmth on her chest and a bloom of heat, coaxing flame from a furnace left unlit for too long. There was no time or energy for it when you travelled until the money ran out. Gleb was warm and soft and he touched her like she was more than just convenient. Kissed her like he liked the taste. 

Then he knelt on the floor and pushed at her knees. Fingers tracing up her thighs, a kiss above her knee, and the softest caress at her hip. Quaking followed his touch, radiating with more force than the touch that had brought them. How long since she’d been treated with tenderness? She didn’t give it to herself, and few she’d happened across had any to spare. 

“Anya?”

Gasping and beyond words, Anya slid a hand into his hair and looked long enough to see his eyes close under her touch. Then his head lowered, his hands sliding up, one wrapped around her thigh and the other roaming, stroking her side and chest. His hands made her soft, too, not the cold hard thing listening for a memory. A moan as his mouth wrapped over her, and it did not matter whose throat it was torn from. 

She could not open enough. Anya raised her legs and spread her knees wide and still wished for more. She concentrated on the catches in her breath and the way her body pulsed and swelled, the way his shoulders surged with effort. Thick heat bloomed in a cold world, painted wings slashed against storms and her legs quivered, writhing. 

Back arching and breath stolen by a sudden rush, her vision went white, and her hearing faded until there was only her heartbeat raging in her ears and awed grunts from between her legs.

“My beautiful sunshine, my Anya, please.” Anya reached down and grabbed a shoulder and pulled. Nothing mattered but this. She was satisfied and not, needing something… a confirmation. To offer something in return. She was so soft now, like the summer crabs inside their shells. For now, just now, Anya let herself be soft and wrapped up in the moment. Soft is not safe when you’re alone, but Gleb was here. He was tender and good to wrap her body around.

His first gasp was hot in her ear. The second was swallowed. 

He does not rush. Whether it’s because he is a man who savors things or the iron bed protests, Anya didn’t know. She might care. Gleb stayed close to her, did not rise to his knees to thrust. His elbows by her head were his leverage and he rolled against her, pausing for kisses and to clutch the bedclothes in his fists, eyes shut tight.

Sweat broke on his back and chest, and his eyes were half closed and blind. His back worked as he thrust, and Anya wrapped her legs higher, grasping the bars of the bed for support, and pushed up.

Deep in his chest, Gleb moaned and clamped his hands on her hips. Her name broke into pieces from his lips and she held him as he twitched, face buried in the pillow next to her. 

When his limbs were loose and heavy, he shifted away pulled the blankets over them both. He was blazing at her side, but Anya knew the chill of the room and the storm outside would overcome it soon enough. She settled with Gleb pressed against her, cradling her body with his own. He sighed, and kissed the back of her head.

Sorrow sings, but contentment sighs. That was why it was easy to miss. 

He stroked her lazily, a sensation Anya had never felt. 

“My sunshine,” he murmured, smoothing her hair. She could feel his words against her back. How had she been cold, with this feeling in the world? How could ice cut silver across the sky when heat made an island so bright? Careful to remember that this was only for tonight, Anya relaxed under Gleb’s arm and slipped into dreams. 

There were no ghosts that night.

…

The next morning found her clothes stiff and dry. Anya shook them out and dressed, and after a few bites of bread with Gleb, collected her broom from the doorway.

She left first. It would not do to walk together so early, and an hour later, Anya was sweeping the square. She was a little sore, and there were little pink marks under her clothes and scarf, but the cold had not quite yet chased the warmth from her bones yet.

“A fine morning, comrade.” He was bright and pink lipped despite the damp chill. Like a grin was fighting to break through the stern looks he kept for the day.

Anya smiled. Gleb’s voice was never this tender when he gave his speeches. 

“It is,” she returned. “You should be cautious with your cheer, comrade. Someone might think you too happy for a good Russian.”

Gleb suppressed a smile now. The one he saved for her. “A good Russian loves the winter.” He was about to turn when he stopped, looking back. “Will I see you again, Anya?” he asked quietly.

She pushed her broom, shifting one mess closer to another. It was early in winter, who knew what it might bring? 

Anya offered a little smile. “I’m here every day.”

...


	2. The Neva Flows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The worst storm in years descends on Leningrad. Inhabitants run for cover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A PG13 version has been posted to my Tumblr. :)

Winter settled over Leningrad. Occasional sun broke long strings of cold, gray days, and inhabitants struggled to navigate their walks, blinded by flashing reflections off snow and ice. Anya’s eyes watered throughout those mornings, and she found relief in the rapidly shortening days. 

Shorter days meant the machines of Leningrad trudged to work in the dark. Bleary eyed, they picked their way through the streets under mist-blurred lamp light. In the square, Anya swept up the dirty slush, leaves, and accumulated debris of a city hunching in preparation for a long winter. 

The speeches continued on unflinchingly, though Anya could feel his eyes on her from time to time, even across the square. They had maintained their exchanges cautiously. It did not do to raise the curiosity of others, so they kept their pattern carefully. It was not easy. She knew the sounds his iron bed made and the way his mouth twitched when he whispered her name.

One morning, as Anya cleared sludge away from the platform, Gleb approached after the crowd had dispersed. The morning was brighter than days prior and the mood on the street was as cheerful as Anya had seen since the first snows had come.

“Good morning, Anya.” He fussed with his pockets and finally settled on folding his hands behind his back. 

“Good morning, Gleb. A good speech today. I liked it.”

His pride was bright and sweet. “Did you like the joke? I thought people might like a joke.” He rocked on his heels. “Did… did anyone laugh? It’s hard to tell from the podium.”

Russian laughter was not so boisterous. “A few.” Anya pushed her broom along the base of the platform and made sure nothing had accumulated there.

Gleb shoved his hands back into his pockets. “Oh, I have something for you. It’s not much but I thought you might like it.”

He held out a little folded paper packet. When Anya lifted a flap, a few measures of dried, curling leaves winked up. Her nose twitched at the rising fragrance. 

It was too much. There had to be three full brewings worth of good tea here, a luxury beyond any she’d held in some time. “Gleb, I…”

He held up his hands. “I insist. You look as though you could use a cup now, but,” he gestured to the broom. “I hear those are hard to come by.”

She carefully folded the flap back down and tucked the packet away. “I will have some tonight. Thank you, Gleb.”

They stood, awkwardly quiet and unsure, until Gleb gave a pained smile and one of his little bows before turning. Then he stopped. 

“Anya?”

“Yes?”

“Did you? Laugh I mean?”

It had been a dumb joke. Terrible, really, but she had chuckled. What more could you ask for when the world was turning gray? 

“Yes, Gleb. I laughed.”

He suppressed a smile. A good Russian is never too free with them. 

“I like to make you laugh, my sunshine.”

…

That evening, hours after both the sun and ice had set again, Anya crouched in her patch under the bridge and sipped a weak brew after eating her potato and cabbage stew. If she was careful and not too indulgent, the packet would last a few weeks. 

If she was careful and not too indulgent, things could stay as they were. Gleb would remain at a safe distance and she would save her rubles until spring and travel as far as her meager coins would allow.

A hard gust of wind blew mist into Anya’s face and she coughed. The sound was loud, echoing off the concrete underbelly of the bridge and rang in her ears. It was easy to forget human sounds when you’re the only source of them. All of those little sighs and sniffs that accompany people. The sound of conversation and shuffling movements. Your own name from another’s lips.

Anya swallowed the last of her tea and chewed the leaves. She was tired after the long day and her bedroll was inviting. As she drifted off, she pushed away a vague sense of dissatisfaction. Her fingertips had learned the feel of an old quilt and, finding layers of pressed wool felt, recoiled only to find more of the same elsewhere in the bedroll. 

…

Over the years Anya had become quite good at predicting the weather. If clouds were heavy in the mid day, but the ground was warm, the weather may turn but almost never severe. If the ground was already cold, she needed a better plan. Today the ground was middling, and by the time the square was clearing, the sky was dark as night. 

Gleb was called away, leading a small formation of soldiers back to his office before they could visit. It was what it was. Anya swept the street and gathered up handfuls of dry straws she found by the river to repair her broom. She softened lengths of twine in her tin cup, and was rewrapping the first layer when the winds began whistling.

As she worked, and the weather grew worse, she thought of the row of doors. The two rooms and warm stove. How easy it would be to just go back, but how hard it would be to return to the patch. To leave in spring. She’d passed a village with a hotspring once, and stayed there for two weeks before moving on. The loss of heat and all the good things that lived nearby (the rabbits too fat to escape her snares, and the friendly baker who shared them and her spare time) had nearly killed her.

Gleb was a decadence she could not afford to grow accustomed to.

The winds were howling when she finished, tearing at every seam in her bedroll and slipping sharp fingers into the hole she left for breathing. Her feet throbbed with cold but it was just a bad night, not a terrible one, though she ate the second half of the chocolate, not wanting to miss the taste if things got any worse.

The following morning was calm, and Anya, chafed and addled by poor sleep broken by nightmares and shivering, limped to her post. All of Leningrad was up early it seemed, as if ready to spring out after such a night. Even the square cleared early and Gleb was hurried off once more, glancing over his shoulder apologetically. 

He paused, watching, then he walked on, his men following him like ducklings.

…

Snowy mornings with fat flakes were best. Big, fluffy snow, like the underfeathers of a goose, meant the temperature was not so cold and the winds not so fierce. Anya’s step was light and quick, her newly strung broom making quick work of crushed gravel used to aid traction over the thickening ice. 

“Good day, comrade.”

She looked up. “So you’re here today?” she teased.

“I’m here every day,” Gleb said, with a funny toss of his head. “I just got to stay a few minutes today.”

A tidy pile of clean gravel. She would spread it back out on the pavement. She may even earn a good mark for her forethought, “You’ve been busy.”

“I have,” he said, pursing his lips for a moment. “I’m sorry I haven’t been free to visit.”

Anya looked up, blinking. “You were working. So was I.”

“Yes, but there was a bad night. I thought…”

“What?”

Gleb shoved his hands in his pockets. “I thought you might, ah, need shelter. Then I saw you the day after and… I wish you had come. I was worried.”

Anya pushed the gravel into a tighter pile. “I’ve seen worse. I’m fine.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “I see. But, if I may?” He pulled a wads of something thick from his pockets. “Your boots. They’re not… they could be warmer. Here.” Moments later, a shout summoned Gleb and he was hurried off before Anya could unroll the wads.

Thick liners, the good ones. Seamless wool felt would not chafe, and would keep her feet warm and dry. Easy to clean, too. Hard to get winter gear. He would have seen her boots that night, and how they were barely adequate. 

It was not a bright day, but her eyes watered just the same. 

…

Leningrad was holding its breath. For three days, reports had been arriving of the worst winter storm thus far creating chaos on the roads, derailing trains, and knocking trees clean off their roots. Shortages sprang up, and even a packet of oats or dry beans was far beyond reach. Anya took stock of her rations and noted where she could conserve and where she could not, and prepared.

The day before the storm should arrive, and the stew in her tin cup was thin. More cabbage than potato. Not enough fat and starch to stick to the sides of the cup meant it would not stick to her insides. Even a few flakes of oats did not improve it much. 

The next morning was still. Eerie silence in the sky was more ominous than the wild storms that cracked lightning through ice-pellet snow, and men and women huddled low, hurrying to avoid being out of doors. Anya carefully swept the gravel over patches of ice, stomping here and there to drive the rocks into the softer places. One less slip could be her own at this rate.

And then, with hardly more warning than the rumble of distant wind, the promised storm broke. It slashed and screamed, and though Anya struggled to wall off her patch, she did not have enough time, materials, or hands to do so. The violence of the storm broke the ice on the Neva and sent wet shards up the banks that froze on contact. Deafening winds were confusing and, in the darkness, Anya found herself disoriented on her own turf.

Long blown out, she shoved rocks at her brick hearth to keep it stable and laid more rocks over her burlap sack of wood and charcoal. The bedroll, too. She had resolved on survival, weakness and all, and as she jammed her possessions into hiding, a gust of wind ripped beneath the the bridge, catching Anya’s thick skirts like a sail. She pitched over and slid down to the edge of the Neva where the broken ice had blown and refrozen into jagged knives. 

Bruised and freezing, Anya crawled from the edge back to her patch and snatched up her bag of clothes and walked, knocked back and forth by the winds as they whirled into jetties between buildings and tore through the streets. Twice more, her feet went out from under her, her thick skirts catching the arctic violence, until Anya finally found the row of doors and limped her way to his.

She sat on the stoop and banged her elbow into the door, unable to bear the impact on her hands. The one was frozen in a claw-grip on her bag anyway. Before she could leave a third thump against the door, she fell backwards. 

"Anya!" 

"A most terrible night, isn't it comrade Vaganov?" she said through chattering teeth. 

Gleb ignored her strange giggle and dragged her in by the back of her coat. "Why are you so wet? It isn't even-- oh who cares…" he muttered. When he let go of her coat, Anya promptly flopped backwards. 

"The Neva is flowing, Gleb. I thought you would like to know. But the wind gave it teeth and it bit me." 

At that, Gleb threw his sweater aside and took her face in his hands. His dark eyes were tight with fear and his hands were… Hot? Cold? 

A thick finger tip pushed into the side of her neck and Anya tried to push it away, but her arms were suddenly much too heavy. Everything was heavy. 

"Hey, that hurts." 

"I won't be able to feel your pulse in your wrist, Anya. Quiet!" 

Moments later, in a flurry of movement far more pleasant than the whipping winds, her clothes were stripped off and she was wrapped in a sheet and blanket. Gleb deposited her in a chair by the stove and filled a pot from the tap. 

"Don't move," he cautioned. 

In a few minutes or maybe longer, he came and went to pick her up again. 

"I'm fine, Gleb. I can do it." 

"If you fall and hit your head, how do you think I'll feel?" 

She had not thought of that. If a girl was found half dead in the commissioner's flat, it might be complicated. Probably not, but it might, and neither of them needed that. Anya stayed still until he sat her on the edge of his small bathtub. 

"Oh, I'd love a hot bath, Gleb."

"It's not hot."

"Why not?" Gleb rolled his eyes as he lowered her down, sheet and all. Her breath caught one she felt the water. Somewhere deep in her mind, the bit that still operated with reason, knew why, so she quieted though the water felt hot enough to burn. The bit knew why-- she was much colder this time. 

"I wanted to look for you, Anya, but I didn't… I didn't know where--" 

"I'm fine Gleb," Anya said. 

"No, Anya! You're not!" He plucked her arm from the water and pressed his thumb into the mottled colors. It took several blinks for the color to come back. Her nails were pale against fingers that were turning flame red. 

For whatever reason- the bath, the unbraiding of her hair, or the reddening in his eyes--Anya turned her hand in his and squeezed. 

An edge of the sheet was hanging over the side where Gleb knelt, wicking water. His clothes were dark and wet when he stood. The sheet floated around her in the water. 

"Stay, I'll be right back." 

He returned with a pot and gently moved her legs to one side before pouring warmer water into the tub. Anya sighed. It reminded her of the hot springs, only without the faint smell of sulphur. 

When Gleb brought her a nightshirt, Anya half smiled when he looked away while she dressed, sleeves far past her fingertips and the ends to the middle of her shins. Funny and old-fashioned; well worn, but whole and soft. Her fingers were clumsy as she tied the laces at the neck. 

The world blinked in and out when a towel settled over her shoulders. The stove warmed her legs and if the chair under her was hard she could hardly tell. If the storm outside was raging, she could hardly hear it. It seemed she was only aware of the most direct sensations, and everything else was still. A draft at her knees. The clank of a kettle and a cup in her hands. Heat in her fingers. Tugging at her scalp?

Her hair. He was combing her hair. 

Then weight. Warm weight and then nothing. 

A rattle woke her. Comfortable darkness pressed Anya gently on all sides. She reached up - - cast iron. She was alone, though. Her only bedmates were smooth rocks, still radiating heat from the stove. The quilt was warm around her shoulders as she crept from the bedroom, shuffling lightly as she walked to avoid smashing her toes.

She found Gleb in front of the stove. Anya had to admit, he looked quite comfortable, but it wasn't right. The rug was thick enough, and coals still glowed and shimmered in the stove, but the air was chilled and Gleb was curled up under one blanket.

Another rattle, and the shrill whistle of wind. The window offered nothing but an occasional horizontal stripe of white. 

“Gleb?” His face turned to her. When she called a second time, his dark eyes caught the glimmer of the glowing stove. 

“Anya? Go back to bed, you’ll get chilled.”

“Come on,” she reached and found his shoulder. “It’s cold out here.”

His hand covered hers for a moment. “Ah, no. You need to sleep.” 

“Do you think I can sleep if you’re out here on the floor? What do you think I am?” At his hesitation, Anya lowered herself to the floor and covered them both with the quilt.

“What are you doing?” Gleb said, horrified.

“I’m showing you how stupid you’re being.”

He leapt up. “Fine.” He lead her back to the bedroom and tucked her back in. Gleb rearranged everything to make space, and when he finally slid in next to her, Anya heard an exhale as he settled. As the bed grew warmer again, he shifted minutely, his little sighs held kindly by the dark room. Minutes crept by in blind silence until his hand brushed hers. 

“Are you better?”

“Yes.”

Gleb swallowed. “Good. I was… concerned.”

Anya let her fingers trace along with his. “Yes.”

A catch in his breathing. “I missed you.” Another swallow, the sound of his mouth working in the dark, searching for words. “I missed you, my sunshine.”

Snug and sightless in their cocoon, Gleb twined his fingers with hers, then he rolled onto his side. “I wanted to do more, say more, but--” he caught himself.

Anya turned her head towards him. “But there are eyes?”

“Yes. I wanted…” If darkness was making Gleb bold, then she was causing him to question it, and there was a strange tug around her heart, like when he was combing her hair. When Gleb reached for her, he drew his arm back, and reached again, hesitating and cautious.

This time, Anya rolled towards the warmth, into his arms. Into his space and offered him her own. “What did you want, Gleb?”

Relief shook him for a moment and hesitation fell away. “I wanted to hold you. I wanted to but you weren’t there.” He kissed her cheek, then thumbed the nightshirt to bare her shoulder, trailing his lips. But it wasn’t a kiss. Kisses had a beginning and an end. This was… something else.

The sheets rustled as Gleb rolled closer, pulling her to his pillow. More something else kisses. Tracks from his lips tingled and left hyper aware stripes across her shoulders, her neck, and then down. 

“Gleb,” Anya whispered. The tugs around her heart had squeezed, his name the only word she thought to form.

His hair had fallen loose, and it flopped over, tickling her. “My sunshine,” he replied. More tugs, but these were the nightshirt as Gleb unlaced the front. Now his lips sent her insides fluttering. At this unexpected rush, Anya plunged her hands into the mop of soft, tickly hair, clutching Gleb’s head.

With a sharp inhale, his nuzzling turned to hot, open mouthed sucking, drawing her into his mouth and sliding his tongue over her. Needing something to hold, to grip, she found Gleb’s forearms and squeezed them hard enough to bend his bones. A rumble ran through him in response, a wild sound full of appreciation and need. 

The nightshirt was around Anya’s waist, pushed up by the slow grind of their play, and the neck was opened, her breasts bare in the absolute dark. Little chance to be seen, but they were both bold in the dark, and Gleb buried his face in her, breathing her in with hoarse, greedy inhales.

Anya curled around him and stretched her arms down to his back. His shirt had ridges in the weave and she toyed with the bumps with her fingertips until she found an edge to pull at. Gleb immediately raised up and let her strip it away to fling into the black. Before he could move, she grabbed him by the belt and pulled him back down, the bed screeching with the impact. The heated rocks, long cooled, bounced away and crashed to the floor.

He’d been about to speak. She’d heard the inhale in his speeches often enough to know, but she didn’t want his words, she wanted his breath. His touch, his lips. His trousers were rough and will have left burns between her legs by now but Anya didn’t care, so she ripped the belt from them and unfastened the front, pushing them off before they were even properly loosened.

Darkness had no use for his speeches, and Anya hardly cared to craft pretty words. The energy it would take was better used elsewhere, like for listening for the wet sound of Gleb’s fingers in his mouth, or the feel of pressure and pulse as he brought her, slick and trembling, then kissed the bloom of salt on her neck before settling between her legs again.

Not content as a bystander, Anya rolled them and the last of the rocks fell. Gleb’s hands were on her as soon as the blankets fell away and, for the first time in months, Anya felt hot in her bare skin. Gleb cupped her, then dragged his hands downward to her waist as she crawled up and captured him in a kiss. Below he strained, eager and impatient. 

A stream of words, sunshine and hope, need and bliss. His darling, his beauty, his heart.

Anya’s breath caught. Under her, his twitching grew almost violent until she plunged down. With a jolt, Gleb let out a cry of thanks and sat up, mouthing her again and planted his hands on her hips to rock together. He threw his arms around her, burying his face in her, whispering words loaded with passion. Words Anya had never heard, but in that moment could understand. 

Under her, Gleb’s words faded as he strained, sparking rising heat that made Anya clutch at his back as his arms tightened around her. The catches and flares in her belly twisted as his soft hair brushed her arms. The strands slid in her fingers until she held fast, turning his face up, unseeable, unfathomable. Kissable. Bruise-tender lips met again in a greedy storm and the squeak of springs rose as the bed scratched a new path across the floor. The kiss only ended with the flooding surge that made Anya bear down, breathless, silent, and still. Gleb gasped , his pace stuttering and reckless, until his entire body went hard and trembling. 

When words served him again, they fell like rain between the kisses he laid on her neck and shoulders. Any place he could reach while they held onto each other. His beauty, he called her. His heart. There was barely enough room for her own in her chest, how could she carry his, too? The tugs nudged hers, strange and insistent; native but unknown.

Shaking, he gathered up the blankets and the nightshirt and, in the pitch black, they settled together in the bed. Gleb held her close, stroking and petting her, murmuring sleepily into her hair. 

“Oh Anya, my beauty. My little sun.”

Anya drifted slowly to sleep, wrapped with a man who could be in complete dark and see the sun in her.

…

The next day dawned bright and clear. Anya woke as the first rays brightened the flat and slid silently from the bed. Her clothes were dry, and she tried to ignore the knowledge that Gleb had seen to that. Each piece of her worn things was draped and hung carefully, as if they were worth more than the dust and mending that held them together.

She dressed quickly and tied her clean, smooth hair back in a braid. 

She could not stay. Gleb was an indulgence she could not afford. One she did not know what to do with. No one had taught her how to do this, to be more than a thing that took and moved on. A thing that was good at one thing and that was surviving. Anya worked and survived, she did not need. She did not want. She certainly wasn’t wanted.

A soft, sleepy sound from the bedroom. Anya heard the now familiar sound of the bed as it reported the shifting weight. Gleb was getting up. She rushed to the door and had her hand on the knob when she heard him.

“Anya?” 

She turned. His eyes were wide and confused, and his mouth shaped words that never formed.

Anya started to open the door. An anguished sound, a cry, turned her head once more.

“Why, Anya?” He clutched the bedroom door frame. “Why?”

Rare winter sunshine lit the Prospekt, and after a day of being shut in, the square bustled and hummed with activity. Anya swept and cleared away the leftovers of the storm, picking through some of the debris for anything of value. The square buzzed with energy, built up from a day shut indoors. Milling spectators watched the podium, waiting for the energetic commissioner to praise their work and virtue. 

There was no speech that day.

...


	3. No Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a beautiful night, comrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Kat and everyone on the discord. Your comments and support were much appreciated.
> 
> A pg13 version is forming and will be posted on Tumblr.

Leningrad shook off the storms and settled back into the mute calm of winter. If Anya was any judge, foot traffic on the streets and sidewalks made up for the time spent huddled away. Shops sold out of goods early and closed for the day, or else rationed them for the after-work shoppers and passers by. 

For three days, Anya avoided the square in the early morning. She swept the pavement for shops a few streets away, brushed ice from window ledges, and lingered near the street stew maker’s pots to see what she would have for supper that night. The morning of the fourth day found her assignments clear-- tend the square early. The podium was unkempt and her work leader did not wish to draw attention. 

Rumor had it that the Deputy Commissioner, usually a good speaker who people stopped to listen to, had been ill, but was so dedicated that he missed only one day. Unfortunately, they said, his recovery was slow. His speeches had none of their usual verve and fire. On his first day back he had only read passages from Marx and Lenin, they said. A very bad illness, to have drained the vigor of such a man, they said.

Anya knew the truth. 

_Why Anya? Why?_

The bases of the lamps and the podium were indeed neglected. Grit had accumulated, caught in the frothy ice pack, clinging and insulting. Where the ice had evaporated, a strange dirty lace was left behind. She slashed at the exposed muck and knocked it away with her boot when the broom failed. 

Her feet do not ache so much from the cold, and as a result, the rest of her was not so cold. Her new boot liners were warm and cushioned her sore feet well. She had not known how much of a difference they could make; it was cold and windy she was still able to work. Anya was still able to eat, thanks to Gleb.

Even though he was not there, he had not stopped giving. She could think on this later.

As the morning crowd gathered in the square, Anya wove between people, hiding amongst the winter drab. When Gleb came out, she huddled a bit lower and watched. His strides failed to swing his medals, and he climbed the stairs slowly, rather than hopping up two at a time. 

“Comrades, it is said that any cook should be able to run the country,” he began. The speech was calm, soothing. Educational. It was not funny, nor particularly interesting or engaging. If he kept this up, the crowds would thin and he would lose favor. 

He was unhappy.

That evening, Anya set her tin cup of stew on the little brick stove to reheat it. Stew that she would have been hard pressed to buy if she had not worked. Her hair was still soft and smooth from the washing. 

It was so much, and he’d asked for nothing in return. A few minutes of her time in the street, a cup of tea, and nothing more. Anything more had been by her own wish. Her own want. 

She didn’t need it. Need was for food and water and shelter. Anya needed clothes and a good coat, and when the opportunity arose, she got them. The tin cup and bedroll, too. Was it stealing if you had need? The revolution did not seem to think so, if private property was to be abolished. 

But did this extend to _wants?_

Had she stolen Gleb?

Anya rinsed out her cup and huddled in her bedroll. It was a cold night and these thoughts would not keep her warm.

…

He spotted her the next day in the square. 

Anya had taken care to not be seen, but when Gleb stumbled over a word in his speech, she looked up. He was staring at her.

“As… as I was saying… as Lenin teaches us, we must not lose heart. When ill.” He cleared his throat and looked down. “A lesson of great importance as we go about our work this time of year, my comrades.” He left the podium and, just before turning to leave, he found her in the crowd again.

Gleb was not unhappy. He was miserable. There was no other word for it. Eyes that had sparkled with humor and energy were sunken and dark. He was gray as the rest of wintergrim Leningrad. 

It struck her then: Anya had power over Gleb. The power to hurt him, and she was not sure she liked it. He had the power to keep her fed and this was valuable. Fed kept you alive. Gleb was soft and, like the hot spring, soft things were a risk. If you got used to them, the first cold night or missed meal would kill you.

Gleb turned away and walked back to his building, flanked by his escort. He snapped orders and men ran to follow them, some clearing his path and opening doors while other took notes and sent runners across the city. He commanded the actions of men, yet he was soft. Like the piles of blankets he kept and the broken-in quilt he favored. Anya liked that quilt. She liked Gleb, too.

When Anya was smaller, she’d had a very fine coat. She could not recall where it came from but it was warm and soft. She’d brushed it very carefully and kept it wrapped up when she didn’t need it. She’d even cried when she outgrew it and had to leave it behind in a closet at the hospital where she’d been working as a dishwasher and nurse assistant.

No. She did not like this power. And she did not want to think about how to outgrow another person like a coat. You could not wrap them to store away. And her coats had not kissed her. 

Though the morning was cold, it was not why Anya shivered.

…

The mindless drudgery of her job meant Anya often did not recall the specifics of her days. When the curbs and walks are so familiar that you know where the filth will accumulate by the wind, the only way to vary the days was to take the streets in different orders. One street caught gusts powerful enough that it was always clean, but the curbs and corners at the end of the street were full of filth. 

She walked the street anyway. The buildings had ornate trim and were nice to look at despite being boarded up while they awaited repurposing. Anya hoped the pretty colors and craftsmanship would be allowed to remain even if they weren’t exactly functional. There were flowers carved into a wooden panel; a memory of gold leaf. Thick columns swirled like twisted vines. The red and blue paint may be flaking but a pinch of imagination was all it took for the whole block to bloom like a meadow.

Anya paused. Why should some ornate trim on a building matter? Buildings did not need it to be a building, nor to stay up, and yet she’d seen decorations like these on hundreds of houses and within their walls. In pictures she’d seen, other places dripped with carvings and paint, too. She’d heard, as long as she could remember, that it was unnecessary; a distraction. An extravagance.

And yet, she traced the cracked wood where a red flower once bloomed, unneeded, and felt a tug at her heart.

…

The morning crowd in the square assumed that the deputy commissioner was on the path to recovery. His speeches were better than mumbled quotes but, as far as Anya could tell, lacked the spirit of weeks before. He spoke more slowly, more carefully, as if measuring his words rather than letting them spring free.

There were no jokes. Gleb loved to tell jokes. Gleb who snuck dates and chocolate and tea and other things no one really needed. 

Things she liked. Things that were wanted.

A straw snapped from the broom and Anya swept it up with the rest of the debris at the edge of the crowd. Her stash of straws should hold for the rest of winter but who knew what spring would bring? If she saved enough, she might move on as she often did, mile by mile until she could find a place to cross out of Russia’s borders.

The broom handle was suddenly unbearably heavy. It was exhausting to plan like this, rationing every mouthful and coin, with every step taken here to be mirrored by ones that would carry her to the west. But Anya was just so tired. She was tired of bedrolls and scavenged meals; foraging and petty theft. Without meaning to, she leaned heavily on the broom handle, letting something else hold her up, even if it was just for a moment.

“Are you well, comrade?”

Her heart thudded. The hardest tug yet. “Gleb!” Anya’s eyes snapped open as she snatched at the broom, scrambling to resume her work. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking.”

His eyes had not lost the darkness and shadows, but he gave a weak smile and put his hand on the broom handle, stilling her frantic movement. “I only meant to ask how you were.” It was no wonder the working people of Leningrad thought he was ill. Gleb looked exhausted. Or was it something else?

“I am well, thank you.” He searched her face as she spoke, leaning over slightly as Anya searched for words. “It has not been so cold.”

Gleb’s breath puffed harsh and white as he glanced at the sky. “You’re right.” He released the broom and his shaky smile deepened into something that was stronger, but not joyful. “I suppose it has not been so cold, Anya.”

The tug returned at the way he said her name, more breath than sound, curling it into the air like the swirling columns of buildings she liked to look at. She squeezed and the broom handle was hard in her palms. 

“And you? Are you well?”

Gleb straightened, and for a moment he shook off the weight. “I am,” he swallowed thickly. “I am well enough.” His shoulders drooped once again, jangling his medals.

“Good, then. I heard you were… ill.”

“I was not ill,” he said heatedly, then looked down, kicking at nothing. “But I am back. I am here every day... again.”

She gave the broom a half hearted push and nudged a bit of dried mud. “Good. It’s not the same without you. Here.”

Across the square, his men appeared and began to approach with an air of purpose. Gleb gave them a nod and then turned to Anya, his brow furrowed. “I have to go. I am… I am glad you have not been so cold.”

He bowed slightly, then started to look away to his men.

“Gleb?”

He turned sharply. “Yes, Anya?”

“A good Russian loves the winter, comrade.”

A faint light gleamed in his eyes. Then he turned back to his men and walked to join them. 

Does hope gleam or burn? Anya wasn’t familiar enough to be sure.

…

On a calm evening, Anya gathered clean snow to melt for her tea. It was the last of the tea Gleb had given to her, and she wanted to drink it on a night she wasn’t fighting the wind to keep her brick stove lit or huddling against the cooling bricks to stay alive. The jagged teeth of the Neva were blunted now, worn down from blowing wind and ice. Her patch and the steep bank were safer, and she easily walked the edges of the river.

She spooned snow into her cup until it was full and took it back to her patch, set it on the bricks, and rewrapped her scarf. The night was cold, but crisp rather than brutal. The air was tangy and clear and the sky above was lit with stars. On nights as clear as this Anya could make out their colors, winking and jewel-like. She held up her hand and held a thousand bright pinpoints between her fingers.

They were beautiful. Maybe lights were hope, rippled by her breath. Dim as they were, even the streetlights of Leningrad could light Anya’s way in the dark evenings, bringing her home in storms. Pictures from the West promised streets full of bright globes, rows and rows of them, each one brilliant and able to light the night like day. She’d traced the outlines of lamps in photographs and wondered if they were as bright as the pictures promised. Did they outshine the moon and stars?

Anya shivered as a breeze stole heat from under her coat, and she set more rocks near the stove. She gathered snow and turned back to the stars. They were cold, shimmering between her fingers. Beautiful, but cold and distant, like the deserted palaces and the ragged shadows within them. Like the pictures of far away cities. Nothing like the light that gleamed in Gleb’s eyes.

She could not hold the stars, but Gleb...

Unlike lamps and stars, Gleb wanted to be held. Wanted to hold.

As soon as she thought it, a fierce jittering ran through her limbs. This was dangerous thinking. More dangerous than rumors or traveling alone through the backroads. When survival was the only goal, it was simple to know the next step, the next task. Sweep the broom, wash the pot, carry the load, eat, and keep moving. The day was simple when you only had to stay alive. 

For the first time, the gleam in Gleb’s eyes made her imagine something new: What if there was more? What if she wasn’t just alive, but living?

The water was boiling. She should add the tea now, but the fragrant leaves were suddenly unimportant compared to the sting spreading through her. Like watching a crack in glass travel slowly across a windowpane, lines traveling from a fractured spider web.

Anya wanted. She _wanted_. She wanted more than a cup of tea or a picture of someone else’s street lamps. 

The stars above winked. 

Gleb had a window. She hoped the stars would look just as pretty through it.

…

Many people were out walking. Winter did not often afford such calm weather at night and the city was determined to enjoy it while it lasted. Anya wove her way past the lamps, storefronts, and twisting columns. Bare wood carvings, chipped paint, and flaking iron. Leningrad was careworn, but like her, it was also alive. She was so _alive_. Did light gleam in her eyes?

The row of doors stretched out in front of her. Like others in Leningrad, this building remembered its history, probably better than she remembered hers. It was written in the bare brick where intricate decorations had been removed in favor of uncomplicated concrete steps. 

Anya tucked her hair back and patted her braid. She was certain she was unkempt, but could not possibly look worse than the last time she’d arrived here. Her small bag was jammed with things she kept from one move to the next. The rest was buried and stashed. She could retrieve them when needed. If needed.

There was light at his window. Light and everything it implied. Tugs nudged at Anya’s heart and urged her forward, up the stairs to his door. Her knock was loud in the dense cold.

The door opened partway, and Gleb froze. 

Anya took a shaky breath. “Hello, Gleb.”

A twitch in his jaw. “Anya.” He looked over her head and then towards either side. “A fine night.”

“It’s a beautiful night, comrade,” she said.

Gleb let his hand slide from the doorframe. “It is. So, why?”

“Why?” He was wary of her. Perhaps he was right to be. 

“Why are you here, Anya? Isn’t there someplace else you need to be? Someone who knows you?” Gleb swallowed and leaned against the doorframe. “Someone you let know you?”

“Only the Neva knows me, Gleb.” It did not share its secrets. 

He searched her face, uncertain. “I don’t understand.” 

“You don’t need to,” Anya said. “Just know that I am alone, and always have been. As long as I can remember.” She chewed the words. They were bitter and harder to speak than swallow into silence. Saying them out loud made them real, and left her glassy and thin. 

“Anya?”

She shook herself from her thoughts and looked back at Gleb. The last few weeks had left him haggard and frayed but Anya saw a gleam, a warmth in his eyes. 

“Yes?” His hands were tense on the door.

“You don’t have to be.”

Anya gave a little smile. “I know. It’s a beautiful night, Gleb.”

He stepped aside from the door to let her in.

…

Gleb was raised well. It was there in his fussing over his guest and the arrangement of bread, butter, and a small cup of vodka while he cooked lentils to make his single bowl of thick stew stretch to feed them both. Anya dipped her buttered bread in the stew and liked the bit of richness it left behind in the broth. Food like this made you dizzy.

He swallowed a mouthful and chased it with watered vodka. “The break in the weather has been a relief. Storm seasons are always hard.”

“Weather changes fast,” she agreed, because she could think of little else to say. “I stayed in Kazan one winter. One day the Volga was flowing, the next it stopped.” 

Gleb nodded and took a slower bite. “You have traveled?”

“I walk a lot. Sometimes I walk to new places.” Anya remembered the coat and smiled. “I worked in a hospital in Kazan for more than a year before I walked to Cheboksary.” She’d left the coat in a rarely used cupboard in Kazan hoping it might keep someone else warm.

“What did you do in Cheboksary?”

What didn’t she do? As they talked, Anya discovered that while she was washing dishes in Cheboksary, Gleb had earned his commission. While she sewed buttons in a laundry, he was studying Marx, Hegel, and von Clausewitz with other new officers. While she scrubbed floors in Kstovo, he was writing speeches and radio plays to construct a new, cultured Russia.

They compared struggles, and Gleb refilled their glasses. Anya swallowed hard at Gleb’s harrowing stories from further West, and Gleb’s jaw hardened at Anya’s carefully vague mentions of backroads and makeshift shelters. 

After more than an hour, it was unreasonable to delay the inevitable. Gleb took his last bite and Anya finished hers as well, long cold. He rose, and reached to take her bowl like the good host that he was. 

“Let me.” Anya stood and took her bowl to the sink. 

Gleb tried to take the brush and soap from her. “No, you’re a guest.”

“Am I?” Anya asked, then took his bowl and poured hot water and soap into the sink. “I did this for a job, remember?” As she made suds with the brush, she could feel Gleb’s conflict from behind her. Did he want her to be just a guest in his house? Or did he want something else? 

As she finished the first dishes, Gleb joined her at the sink, towel in hand. “At least let me dry,” he said. The first few exchanges were awkward and they nearly dropped a cup. “We need practice,” he laughed as he put it away.

“Judging by the edges of your plates, ‘we’ are not the problem’,” Anya teased. “Unless you often have guests who are careless with them,” she added.

A few moments passed. “No,” he said softly. “I’m afraid the chips are all mine.”

It wouldn’t have mattered. Not much anyway. She hadn’t even suspected it, but it was nice to know all the same. 

“I would offer tea but I’ve run out,” Gleb frowned. “I can get some tomorrow if…”

“I have a little,” she offered. Her sleeves were rolled up and she was up to her elbows in warm water and bubbles. “In my coat pocket. Go ahead if you like.”

The window was fogged near the sink from the warm water below, and while Gleb gingerly searched her coat. Anya cast her eyes up as she scrubbed the teapot. The stars were beautiful here, too. Framed like art in the window. 

“Found it-- oh!” Gleb held the packet carefully. “It’s the tea I…” His words trailed off. “I’ll get the kettle.”

Anya rinsed the teapot and set it to the side. The sink was not so large, so when Gleb brought the kettle to fill it, they stood shoulder to shoulder, the closest they’d been all evening. They’d been cautious, giving each other plenty of space until now. 

Gleb was so intent on the water flowing into the kettle that he could only be hyper aware of her. He was as far away as he could be and still have his hands in the same sink with her. Anya stole a glance, and saw that his hair had fallen loose. Soft, broken free of the tight military style he wore in the square. 

Others got his scowls. They followed him and scurried on his order, but Anya… she got to see the separations in his hair left by his comb and how the little slips curled on his forehead. She’d heard his breath in her ear, her name in his voice, and knew how tender he was under his medals.

He was watching that kettle so closely. It was nearly full.

So was her heart. Full of something that made it skip and leap in her chest. So much more than the tugs, more than the strange kicks under her skin when she thought of what was happening,

Ten years was a long time. She had no plan. She never had. A faded photograph and a destination were not a plan, Dreams were fine but they did not feed you or keep you warm. Anya never woke from a dream feeling like… this.

“Gleb?”

He jerked, then turned. “Yes, Anya?”

The kettle was full and Gleb was waiting, shining dark eyes searching for clues to who or what she was before stepping to the stove. 

“The stars.” She had no plan. Maybe that’s who she was. “I like the view of them from your window.” 

His throat worked, swallowing over and over. “This time of year, I can see stars for most of the day from here.”

“Do you look at them often?” Anya asked, swishing bubbles between her fingers.

“No,” Gleb said as he set the kettle on the stove. “Do you want to know why?”

Looking at Gleb’s trembling lip and the way his knuckles turned white on the handle of the kettle, Anya finally realized something. Gleb didn’t have a plan either. If he ever had, she had certainly changed them. 

Anya drew in a shaky breath. Was this how new plans were made? 

“Why?”

“Because Anya,” Gleb turned. Little muscles around his eyes and in his jaw rippled as he came closer, caution in every move. “Because I like the sunrise best.”

Water splattered and left a trail around the sink and floor. The suds clung to her hands as Anya reached out to those soft curls along his forehead, The ones that had escaped and were now tightened from steam. They slid in her fingers, and gripped each one in their twist. Bubbles clung here and there, catching the light.

“Anya,” he choked out. “Anya please. If… if you’re not…” He struggled with the words and held her wrist lightly, stopping her. 

“It’s a beautiful night, Gleb.” 

“It’s not enough,” he ground out. “I can’t just,” he dropped her hand and stepped back, chest heaving with heavy breaths and misery in his eyes. “You can’t… and then leave!”

Anya paused. Was this how plans were made? She didn’t know, but might be willing to find out. The picture was ragged; the paper stock it was printed on had grown fuzzy and from her tracing. If Gleb was ragged, she’d done that, too. She had that power.

“I think,” she said carefully. “I think I may be tired of walking.”

His edges seemed to tighten in the low light, sharper somehow as he stiffened, barely breathing. He had bared so much to her, and his humor and compassion, those little gifts, his smiles, and those few moments here in his flat, told Anya that he wanted to believe her. Needed to believe her, and would take any lie she offered just to have her near. 

But Gleb was not a coat, and she would not take from him again. 

“Gleb, is the sunrise really so pretty from your window?”

There it was. A faint gleam, hot and clear, suddenly lit him from within. “It’s beautiful.” He edged closer and joined her by the sink, then pointed at the window, towards the East. “Just that way, over the city.” Gleb swallowed and lowered his arm, smiling faintly at a memory. “It lights up the whole flat, and it’s so warm, even when it’s cold out. I like to watch in the summer, before I go to work.”

The strangest thought crossed her mind as she dried her hands on her dress. Apart from her dreams and not-plans, Anya did not have particularly strange thoughts. She rolled it in her mind when it suddenly decided to fall from her lips.

“I would like to see it.”

He stilled. “In summer?”

“Well,” she said. This was how plans were made. She reached out, wanting to see if the curls would wrap at her fingers again, but drew back. “I would like to see it. Tomorrow. That is, if…”

He didn’t let her finish. There was a flash in his eyes and then his lips were on hers. Without storms, ice, or wind. There was only hunger and tenderness plucking at the same strings that had been tugging her heart. The space in her chest was ready to spill warm and thick when he slipped a hand under her hair and traced the back of her neck.

Gleb slapped at the stove when the kettle started to whistle, then leaned his forehead against hers.

“Do you want tea?”

“Save it for tomorrow.”

The hot water did not go to waste. Gleb heated more water while Anya took the kettle and went to the bathroom where she found an extra towel and the nightshirt waiting. When she was done, the quilt was waiting for her on a chair. 

While Gleb washed, Anya took the picture from her pocket and touched the worn impressions. No, this was not a plan, but it was a dream. Dreams could neither harm nor help, but they did offer one thing-- a path. Maybe comparison. Reality may not be as sweet as dreams, but it was better than a cold night in the dirt.

The remains of her watered vodka was on the table and she drank it down, letting the vapors fume through her nose and between her teeth before tucking the picture away. From the window, she looked past her reflection into the city and imagined the chill of the Neva, crisp and sharp. On a night like tonight it would bite at her nose while the rest of her was barely warm enough, huddled into the join of bridge and earth in the receding heat of her bricks.

These thoughts were why, when Gleb ran his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, she leaned back into him. In the window, her reflected outline was obscured but not erased. She turned her face away from the window and pressed her forehead to his jaw.

He kissed her and sighed. The stars beyond the window receded as Anya’s focus changed, her attention caught by the way his loose undershirt clung near his neck. He’d hurried through washing. The thought made her lips curl.

“Have I made you smile?” he said softly.

Anya touched the darkened edge at his neck. “You should not sleep in wet things, Gleb.” She spread her hands over his chest, strong and lean from years of service, then wrapped her arms around him. His breath jerked once, twice, then smoothed, deepened. One hand cradled her head and the other was tight across her back, holding her as close as he could manage. 

It might have been her, but it did not matter who took the first step. Details blur when kisses start, and disappear completely when the room spins from them. Gleb sat on the bed first and set the quilt aside, Anya standing between his knees. She hiked the nightshirt up, ready to climb over him when he cupped her cheek, stilling her.

“Sunrise is not for many, many hours. I promise you won’t miss it.” He nudged her leg down and pulled her close, hugging her middle. 

He was right, of course. There was no rush. A new thought.

When Anya rested her hands on his shoulders, he stroked up and down her back. Her fingers in his hair made him sigh, and scratching his scalp got a moan. He pushed his face to her chest, nuzzling the space between her breasts, and she pulled at his curls, springy and soft.

Gleb shifted, adjusting, and Anya reached for his trousers. He tried to stop her, but let his hand fall away when she only loosened them.

“No rush,” she said. Shivers ran across his belly and his eyes drifted closed when she grazed him. She’d once wondered if he was a man who savored things, and flutters radiated through her at the answer. 

He would savor _her_. A noise escaped her at the thought.

“Anya?” 

She didn’t bother with words. There were other things to do, and she kissed down into his soft mouth, liking the way he tried to chase her. Wells do not pour upwards. A coat abandoned in a closet is useless. 

The feel of him, his slow touch rising up her legs, stroking her thighs, set her on fire. She wanted him. Maybe she needed him. Her fist tightened in his hair.

He gasped and pulled her onto the bed beside him. The thought to pull him between her spread legs flared, then died as quickly. Instead, she cupped him through the loosened trousers and appreciated the lazy thrust that answered. When he pulled her closer, resting his hand at the dip in her side and just tracing a breast, Anya stopped him and wrapped her fingers around his waistband.

Savored or not, she preferred his skin to the sturdy weave of his trousers. They heaped by the bed, ready for later. In the dark room, she could just make out his shape, heavy yet patient, before he pulled the quilt over them both. Together they snuggled close and Anya laid her leg over him, the nightshirt pulled up to her middle. 

Gleb kissed near her ear. “My sunshine,” he murmured. “I was afraid. The winters are harsh. I tried to understand what I did wrong.” He ran a hand up and down her back, then pressed himself against her. She rocked against him, a suggestion, an offer, but he did not press forward. 

He tensed, flexing in her arms. “If you didn’t want me, if I had done wrong… but I couldn’t,” he panted, his belly quivering. “I couldn’t find what I’d done. How I had hurt you.”

Anya slid herself along him and felt heat blossom through her limbs, loose and supple

“It was me, Gleb. I don’t know,” he cupped her rear and squeezed. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how to be a…” Words failed. What was this? It wasn’t taking. No one had to give. It just was.

“A lover?” Gleb breathed, then slid his hand from her rear downward, between her legs. He stroked her, thrusting to slide against her, shaking even as he held back.

Her mind reeled. She did not have lovers. Lovers implied something more than immediate. Something that lasted. The word was like chocolate melted across her tongue. She kissed his ear, apricot-tender, just to feel him shake.

“Lover,” she tried, tasting the word.

Gleb moaned and removed his fingers from her, sucking them in his mouth. He pushed her onto her back and kissed her neck, then slid his tongue into her mouth, seeking, before crawling down her body between her legs. 

Lover. This is what lovers did when they liked and wanted each other. It felt indulgent and luxurious, two things she’d never had and never expected to. Traced, false lamplight and the suggestion of a future faded for the one in her hands, coiled and gasping. It could shake an iron bed across a floor and it gave her names, new names. Good names.

“Anya, my sunshine. My beauty.” His beard was prickly between her legs but his tongue was smooth and his lips suckled her softest places until they felt ripe and full in the cold night. Winter-bright stars over a summer bed.

“Lover,” she said again, and Gleb wiped his face on her thigh before returning to her. 

“I will call you every name I can remember, so long as you let me hear that one,” he said before settling over her. 

Anya pressed her thighs together, holding him. “It’s the only one I know.”

Gleb’s kiss was hard and desperate as she guided him, nipping her lips as he buried himself in her. His curls tightened into little rings as sweat broke and glistened beneath the quilt. Anya’s thoughts, usually so focused and purposeful, offered only swirls of shape and color. Bursts of energy pulsed underneath her eyelids as she rocked in time.

“Anya, my lover.” The words were hauled from deep in his chest. Harsh and wild, and then there was a change. The bed jerked as Gleb gripped an iron bar over her head and lowered one hand between them.

Her back arched, pushing up with a jolt as the swirls and colors washed out white. For a moment, the world was a blizzard; a soundless, pulsing roar that stole her breath as it thundered inside her. Dimly, distantly, and yet in her ears, she heard the bed scrape once more as Gleb shouted, a sound scraped by gravel. He clung desperately and trembled, whispering piles of words she could only sense but not yet comprehend.

Limp and shaking, he gathered her and wrapped himself around her, petting and stroking. Decadent and sweet, this kind of touch, and nowhere to be found under a bridge. Not on a backroad nor by a hot spring.

“Gleb?”

“Yes, my sunshine?”

Anya snuggled against him and ran her fingertips over the quilt, finding a spot where the threads had cut through the fabric. She could easily repair that for him. Maybe even tomorrow.

“Can we have tea while we watch the sunrise?”

If it was even possible, he held her tighter, burying his face against her, and drew in a shaking breath.

“Of course. I’d like that.”

…

He kissed her when she woke up and again after she’d washed her face and braided her hair. He called her his sunshine when he offered bread and what little butter he had, and stroked the side of her neck when she joined him by the window to wait for the pink horizon to lighten. 

It was strange. Stranger than the dreams that haunted her on bad nights, stranger than the names he called her from under the quilt, and even the thoughts she had under there with him. Stranger even than the idea of a girl walking across Russia with nothing but a stubborn will to live and strong back.

It was so strange, this excitement. What was so special about a sunrise? But then, she was holding a cup of tea, wrapped in her lover’s embrace as they held their gaze to the clear winter sky.

Maybe a storm had brought her. Not of wind and ice, but in herself. The buildings did not need carvings but they were nicer with them. Life was richer when there was a bit of chocolate here and there. And if Gleb could find a place in her to lay his heart, well, surely she could place the overflow with him as well.

The horizon lightened, and the crown jewel of the skies rose dazzling and golden, hazed in watercolor pink and orange, sparkling off the ice and snow of rooftops. Anya could hardly breathe. Was this why he called her sunshine?

“See? Even better than stars.”

Anya clutched her teacup. “It’s beautiful. How could you call me that?”

“It matches your hair. Well, nearly. The sunshine in summer does, though.”

Plans. She could make plans. The picture was still in her pocket, but the dreams could stay, too. Those were someone else’s lamps. Dreams did not need to steal from reality. The ghosts could howl, but they would stay outside. Gleb’s window was enough to frame the storms and stars beyond.

“I can’t wait to see it.”

His kiss came so quickly she nearly dropped her teacup.

... _The End_...


End file.
